


The dear George Sand

by If_you_had_had_a_sister



Series: Frédéric Chopin and George Sand [2]
Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Classical Music RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Kissing, Mentions of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29137815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/If_you_had_had_a_sister/pseuds/If_you_had_had_a_sister
Relationships: Frédéric Chopin/George Sand
Series: Frédéric Chopin and George Sand [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138421
Kudos: 1





	The dear George Sand

I kiss him with my cold mouth that had been on the cigar just the moment before. The smoke fill the cold Majorca air around us with warmth and the smell of tobacco. Our hands in each other’s hair, and my strong and firm eyes looking into his soft ones. His pouting, wet eyes. Wet from tears. He tastes like blood and inflammation. Cold. Cold like death. Blood with the taste of cold iron and inflammation like fever and sickness and pus. It’s not the best, I have experienced, but I love him. Maybe it is pity, maybe it is out of the little kindness in my heart for an ill soul like him. Or maybe it is his flattering hands that stroke mine longingly. Our lean hands seems to be made for each other. Both strong, lean and resilient. His, been playing the piano all their life, mine, been lazy and done whatever they pleased all their life. His hands roam around my body, my chest, but I am quick to slap them away. It’s always like that, back and forth, fighting for dominance. Not aggressively, but we both are in want of power. Him because he is used to it, he’s a man, raised to expect it from women and me because it’s the nature of my masculine soul. Funnily enough, he’s the virgin in the relationship. Never having touched a ladyhood except at his birth. To imagine the great composer, having a weakness, a secret like that. Enough to make a proper woman break into a giggle. High and mighty and never been in bed with an unclothed woman. However, he had asked me if I wanted to sleep with him. Just one night. He had never met someone that made him feel like how, I made him feel, he told me. He said, that he admired me and dreamed about me. Only wanted me and of course, I couldn’t say no. To have him begging me in the early morning, with blood on his chin and hands, looking feverish and tired. Poor boy. Of course, he could sleep with me. That night. This night. In a few hours. 

I pull away and notice the all too common tired look on his face.  
“Chop, you’ve been awake all night again.” I noticed some dry ink on his fingers, that had survived the day’s tasks. I remembered it from the morning through the blood. There is much less of it now, but still, it is there. And I take his hand, follows him up into the bedroom with a bit of force. No matter how much he begs and tries to convince me to not bring him to bed, it doesn’t work on a mother of two. We sit on opposite sides of the bed, taking of our clothes and pulling into our nightgowns. Or maybe each other’s. Who cares, we’ve been sharing a bed for a whole winter. We have even been wearing each other’s clothes unintentionally. They got mixed up but no one noticed until, that same night. He has lost a lot of weight since then though. Practically only skin and bones. I can see his slender body through the light nightgown, he can see me as well, my curvy body. I snuggle into his embrace and kiss him a goodnight.  
“Will we not...?” He asks, quietly and I look up.  
“No, my Chip-Chip, you’re tired and you will just get high and will not be able to sleep. And sleep helps the illness. Goodnight now, dear.” And I close my eyes and he sighs and does as well and we lay together, sleeping the winter night away.


End file.
